I'm doing my best to be mindful about how I'm living: to be kind

Host: The rain had ended only moments ago, leaving the city street damp and shining under the amber glow of the streetlamps. The night air was cool, humming with the faint scent of wet asphalt and coffee. In a quiet corner café, where the windows steamed faintly and jazz music drifted lazily from an old speaker, two figures sat facing each other by the window.

Jack was leaning against the back of his chair, his hands wrapped around a half-empty cup, his expression thoughtful but taut — the kind of look that held too much thinking and too little peace. Jeeny sat opposite, her black hair slightly damp from the rain, a soft smile lingering on her lips as she stirred her tea slowly, as if the motion itself was an act of meditation.

Jeeny: “Deirdre O’Kane once said, ‘I’m doing my best to be mindful about how I’m living: to be kind and patient, and not to impose a bad mood on somebody else. Being mindful is as good a way to be spiritual as anything else.’”

Jack: (raising an eyebrow) “Mindful, huh? That word’s been tossed around so much, it’s starting to lose meaning. Everyone’s ‘mindful’ now — until someone cuts them off in traffic.”

Jeeny: (chuckling) “Maybe that’s exactly the point, Jack. It’s not about perfection. It’s about noticing — catching yourself before your temper becomes somebody else’s burden.”

Host: A bus passed outside, splattering a shallow puddle against the curb, its sound fading into the hum of the city. Inside, the light was warm and still, the kind that made even silence feel alive.

Jack: “Not imposing a bad mood on someone else? That’s a nice sentiment. But we’re not machines. Emotions spill. You can’t just contain them neatly like coffee in a cup.”

Jeeny: “No, but you can choose not to pour it on someone else’s lap.”

Jack: “Easier said than done.”

Jeeny: “Of course. But so is kindness, and people still try.”

Host: Jack smiled faintly, but it wasn’t amusement — more like reluctant respect. He leaned forward, the light catching the shadows under his eyes.

Jack: “You talk about mindfulness like it’s a spiritual practice. But isn’t that just... self-control with better marketing?”

Jeeny: “No. Self-control is about suppressing. Mindfulness is about understanding. There’s a difference.”

Jack: “Explain.”

Jeeny: “When you suppress anger, you build pressure. When you understand anger, you dissolve it. It’s like... standing in the rain. You can curse the weather or just feel the drops until it stops meaning pain.”

Host: A pause. The sound of distant thunder echoed faintly, as if agreeing. Jack’s fingers drummed lightly against the table — a small, restless rhythm.

Jack: “You really think being calm makes someone spiritual?”

Jeeny: “Not calm — aware. There’s a difference there too. Being calm can be fake. Awareness is raw, honest. It’s looking at your chaos and saying, ‘I see you, but you won’t drive tonight.’”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “That’s poetic. But in the real world, people get angry, jealous, tired. You can’t breathe your way through a layoff, or a divorce, or a hospital bill.”

Jeeny: “No, but you can choose how much of that pain you pass on to others. Isn’t that something?”

Jack: “It’s something. But not much comfort when the world’s burning.”

Jeeny: “That’s when it matters most, Jack. When the world’s burning, even one gentle word can stop someone else from catching fire.”

Host: The rain began again, softly this time — a whisper against the windowpane. The café’s light flickered briefly as thunder rumbled deeper now, and for a moment the whole world seemed to listen.

Jack: “So you think spirituality isn’t about gods or rituals — just paying attention?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Mindfulness is prayer without words. Every time you choose patience instead of anger, you’re honoring life.”

Jack: (smirking) “You sound like a monk with a Wi-Fi connection.”

Jeeny: (laughing) “And you sound like someone who’s forgotten how to be still.”

Host: Jack’s smile lingered. He looked away, his reflection faint in the window glass — superimposed over the blurred city lights. For a long second, he seemed far away, somewhere in memory.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, my mother used to tell me to count to ten before yelling. I never understood why. I thought she just didn’t want me to speak. But now I think... maybe she was teaching mindfulness before the word became trendy.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Mindfulness isn’t new — it’s ancient. Every culture had its version of it: patience, presence, awareness. We just gave it a new name.”

Host: The clock ticked softly above them. Somewhere near the counter, the barista laughed quietly at something on her phone — a small, real sound of life still happening.

Jack: “I’ll admit, I envy people who can do it. Stay composed. I’ve tried meditation; all I get is a war inside my head.”

Jeeny: “Then that’s your meditation. The war is part of it.”

Jack: “You mean, even failure counts?”

Jeeny: “Especially failure. Awareness doesn’t demand success — only honesty.”

Host: The rainlight through the window cast faint ripples across the table, as if the whole world was gently breathing with them.

Jack: “So you think being mindful — watching how you live, how you treat others — that’s enough to be spiritual?”

Jeeny: “Isn’t it? Every act of awareness is an act of reverence. Every moment you stop yourself from spreading your storm — that’s grace.”

Jack: “Grace without a god. I like that.”

Jeeny: “Grace without religion. Just humanity.”

Host: The streetlight outside flickered once, briefly, before glowing steady again. A metaphor in motion, though neither of them mentioned it.

Jack: “You know, I once yelled at a cashier because my card didn’t go through. I’d had a bad day — work, bills, everything. She looked terrified. I walked out proud. Later that night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking — she’ll remember me as a cruel man, and I was just... tired.”

Jeeny: “That’s mindfulness right there, Jack. The regret is the seed. Awareness blooms from it.”

Jack: (sighing) “And yet the damage was done.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But the next time, it won’t be. That’s the point.”

Host: The silence between them wasn’t heavy anymore. It was soft, reflective — the kind that comes after two souls have seen each other more clearly.

Jack: “You make it sound simple. Just be kind. Be aware. Don’t dump your storm on someone else.”

Jeeny: “Simple doesn’t mean easy. But it’s the simplest things that save the world.”

Jack: “You think the world can be saved with mindfulness?”

Jeeny: “Not the whole world. But maybe yours. And mine. And maybe that’s enough.”

Host: The rain slowed, the clouds thinning to let the faint silver of the moon spill through. Jack watched it for a while, then finally smiled — a quiet, unguarded smile, the kind that says something inside has unclenched.

Jack: “You know... maybe being mindful really is a form of prayer. The kind even a skeptic can manage.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Awareness is the soul’s breath.”

Host: The clock struck nine. The café began to empty, leaving only the soft hum of jazz and the steady rhythm of the rain’s last few drops. Jeeny wrapped her scarf and stood, her smile still luminous, calm.

Jack: “You going to keep preaching mindfulness to every cynic you meet?”

Jeeny: “Only the ones who need it most.”

Jack: (grinning) “Then I guess I’m a project.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. You’re just... waking up.”

Host: As they stepped out into the night, the streetlights shimmered on the wet pavement, the air smelling faintly of rain and second chances. Jeeny walked ahead, her footsteps light, while Jack paused, looking up at the moon through a break in the clouds.

For the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel the need to speak, to fill the silence. He just breathed — slowly, deliberately — aware of the moment, the air, the sound of his own heartbeat.

And in that quiet, the world, for a single tender instant, felt perfectly still.